A Lion's Meal
by teh Lady Death
Summary: The next time you meet him he's just (as beautiful) as you remember. And you still want to (kiss and hold and bite him to death) be near him, even after all these years. -One Shot-


A Lion's Meal

The next time you meet him (because you do see them all from time to time, the world is so much smaller when you have an eternity to live) he's just (as beautiful) as you remember.

Straight backed and firm shouldered (and slender and so flexible you want to bend him over and then keep pushing just to see how far his spine can flex) his brown hair glossy and his eyes still sparkle (enticingly) with that same mischief that got the kid into so much trouble (and caught your eye) and he's just the way you remember.

You thought highly of him back then, wanted him (in ways that were so dark and full of obscene pleasure that to think on them made you shudder with shame and hot desire) to join your family organization. You would never have done anything about it back then (back when the two of you were still so young, still so bound by what moral codes the mafia had left you, still thinking that a man and a man shouldn't be together quite that way) after all, the family he was already with was powerful (and selfish to have him) and respected (like that was any excuse) and would not have given him up for anything (prudish Italians that they were/are).

But for now (the present, the here, where he is standing there at the granite bar with that white shirt falling open at the collar and those tight black jeans that grip his body and show off that slender waist and those onyx shoes that are _tap-tap-tapping_ a rhythm in time with the music and those sensuously long fingers are fiddling with his glass of scotch) you walk up to him, casually, (burning inside with a fire that has been kept carefully- for decades- in a box where it won't do any damage) and you whisper his real name into (the delicate curve of) his ear (and you can't help but lick your lips as he shudders lightly at the sound) and he turns to look at you, that same self-assured smile, half-cocky, half-mocking, on his (wet and tender and pale pink) lips.

You talk to him for a while (and God Almighty it is hard to concentrate on anything even their conversation, you can't when he is laughing and smiling and making little tingles of desire run up and down your spine) and catch up on the past ten years or so.

He's seen some of the guys from your family, the Gandor family, eking out a living under false IDs still working in businesses half under the table and out of sight of the cops. And you can't help but ask him about her (that fucking _bitch_ who took him away and traveled the world with him and damn near swept him of his feet) the woman called Ennis.

He inhales sharply and takes a quick sip of his scotch and you look at him with concern (your stomach in knots because if you're reading his face right there might be a chance and your heart is beating in hot anticipation) and you ask him what's wrong.

And then he confesses that things aren't going as well as he would have liked with her (and adrenaline explodes in your veins because the opportunity has arisen and your body is telling you act _now- now- now_) and you impulsively put an arm around his shoulders (and your skin burns where you touch him) and you tell him that the two of them have all the time in the world to make up and he shouldn't sweat it.

But that's the wrong thing to say, (and you know that, you planned that, you just need to push the man in the right direction and then-) you apologize when his face falls and you make an offer (_take it- take it- take it_). You have a hotel room nearby, the presidential suite, fantastic view of the city line (you are so smooth and casual you surprise yourself, and hope to God he can't hear the way your heart is going). You invite him to it, away from the noise, to clear his head, to talk some more, _privately_ (you stress the word, put all kinds of meaning behind it) and he nods knowingly, understanding how careful they have to be because of their secret immortality (and he gets the meaning behind the desire for privacy all wrong, but you planned that too) and he stands with you and follows you out of the bar and into a hastily hailed taxi.

And when you get to the suite, you pause and consider how best to broach the subject (of how you want him naked and ass-up on your bed) but he beats you to it.

"Hey, will you fuck me?"

You were not expecting that.

He tosses his coat onto a chair and turns to look at you, toeing off his shoes casually.

"Did I leave ya speechless?"

Yes.

"Don't worry about it. I say some pretty crazy stuff sometimes."

Understatement.

"Listen, this is important."

He's pulling off your jacket and tugging your tucked shirt out of the tops of your pants and letting his fingers linger on your skin.

"I didn't hang around ya back in the day just because I respected ya."

And.

"See, ya had this air about you; like you were a lion, just waiting to pounce."

He watched me that closely?

"And it made me wonder what it would be like, to get pounced on by you."

[Deep breath]

"It's your eyes, you know? They always looked like you wanted to eat me right up."

I do.

"And the thing is I wanted you to. I still do. So, will you fuck me, Luck?"

He's looking at you with those hazel eyes, and the glint of mischief (you thought you liked the most) is gone, replaced with unashamed pleading (your new favorite) and his cheeks are rosy and his lips are wet and he's panting just a little and you can smell the alcohol on his breath and you know that-

"This changes everything," (this is a night you will never regret no matter who he goes to in the morning).

You try to make it to the bed but you can't seem to manage so when you topple down in a tangle of legs and grasping arms and roaming tongues you stay down and rip off his thin white shirt and yank off his pant and socks and finally, _finally_ you have him naked underneath you and it feels better than any fantasy you imagined.

And you fall on him, licking and kissing and biting hard enough to draw blood and he is crying out and gasping and moaning and wriggling and clawing at your back. You grab his half hard cocking in hand and start pumping.

"Come for me, Firo." You whisper because you want to watch him come. You want to watch him writhe and gasp and cling to you as the orgasm you caused wracks his thin frame before you open him up and fuck him hard.

"No!" he cries out, because he knows what you intend and he's still a man with his own pride but you have no intention of letting him have his way at all tonight because _God damn it_ you've been holding back for over _eighty_ _fucking years_ when you could have had him decades ago and that was too long, even for a patient man like you. So you lean down, one hand still stroking his pre-come over his hard cock and the other holding his hands above his head and you tell him-

"You are going submit to me and I am going to ride you like a beast and you are going beg me for more and when I tell you 'no', that I won't fuck you any more, you are going to do the most shameful things to yourself and your raw, red asshole, get on your knees and suck my dick and do everything I tell you to do to please me because you are going to want the feel of my cock buried in you so bad you can't even imagine living for the rest of eternity without it. And then I am going to make you feel so fucking good you won't be able to come ever again without my dick thrusting deep inside of you."

He's trembling, looking at you with wide eyes and red cheeks and a mouth open to let out desperate pants, his legs spread wide, thighs shaking. And you stroke him harder and thumb his purple head and you order him to come again and he gives a strangled cry, thrashing in your grip as he shoots his load all over himself; in his mouth, his eyes, and his hair.

And he collapses against the ground, limp in the aftermath of his pleasure and you wait, dick straining against your pants, sweat running down your chest. And when he stirs, he looks at you with eyes glossed over with lust and he lick his lips before begging you to-

"Ride me like a fucking beast."

You do.

You ride him so hard you know he's bleeding from the intensity of the rug burn and the thought makes you go harder still because you want him to bleed as long as you can make him, want him to remember the pain for days afterwards. And you can see him loving every second of it. He calls out your name over and over, begging for more, begging for you to go harder, just a little harder.

You quickly get to know his body and you intentionally avoid that bundle of nerves you know will make him scream. You wait and put it off until he's so close to the edge you can practically taste his come already and then you nail him, _right fucking there_, and you know he's seeing white as his back arches off the floor, every muscle pulled tight as the intense pleasure of his orgasm explodes through every nerve of his body. You know that every time after his fourth orgasm he blacks out for a few minutes, limp and unresponsive while you continue to pound into his ass seeking your own release.

You don't bother with a condom. You want to fill him to the brim, leave behind your smell in him, like a beast marking his territory. You wish, only for a moment, that the immortality would let the bite marks you make on his neck stay there for longer than a few seconds. But the stink of your spunk in his ass will have to do. So you fill him up, all the way.

He's so full of your sperm that it spurts out with every thrust and when you pull out, just to let his ass heal, to let it get as tight as a virgin once again, the clenching ass muscles squirt the white mess out of him and it make you hard all over again. So you mount him again and pierce his once-again virgin ass with your cock and he moans with pleasure at the painfully good penetration.

You can hardly contain your libido. And by the time the first rays of sunlight finally peek into the room, you've lost count of the number of hours and the number of orgasms. Exhausted, you pull out for the last time and finally manage to pull your eyes away from the beautiful boy beneath you. And when he finally stirs you stand on wobbly legs, sling him over one shoulder and deposit him onto the bed. A bit of reshuffling of the covers and you are curled up together with him, sleeping soundly.

When you wake up around dinner time you are not surprised (but still kind of hurt he didn't wait up) to find him gone and a note, hastily scribbled on the hotel's stationary, left in the now cold indentation where his warm body had once been. It reads-

_Luck,_

_I always thought you should have been born a lion, but then again I'm glad you weren't. I can't stand fur._

_Firo_

You throw the note onto the bedside table and let yourself wonder (in a sort of sickeningly romantic kind of way) when you'll be able to see him next. But you don't worry that he went back to her.

You have all of eternity to wait for your next meal.


End file.
